See You at Harry's

by Jo Knowles

  My dad comes back over to us and kneels in the sand, facing us. His hair is all windblown, and I think it looks grayer. He looks down at his giant thighs and rubs his hands on them.

  “I made arrangements for the memorial service to be on Sunday afternoon.” He turns away and looks at the lake. “And on Monday, Fern and Holden, you’ll go back to school. Sara, Mom, and I will go back to work at the restaurant. I think . . . I think we need to get back into a routine. The sooner, the better.”

  “Mom can’t even get out of bed,” Holden says.

  My dad sighs. “She will.”

  But how does he know? How does he know she’ll come down? How does he know she won’t stay up there forever? How does he know she won’t just fade away?

  We’re all quiet again. So quiet I can’t stand it. A seagull comes over and dips its head toward my dad’s leg. He shoos it off. If Charlie were here, he’d chase it away with Doll, giggling as he ran.

  I want him back.

  I want him to come running up the beach and scream, “Surprise! I’m OK! It was all a big mistake!”

  But the beach stays deserted, except for us.

  “It’s my fault,” I whisper. “If I’d caught up to him fast enough, I could’ve pushed him out of the way.” I imagine myself shoving Charlie aside just in time. I imagine me being the one to fall on the pavement. Got you, Big Bad Wolf! Charlie would say, laughing. And I would be the hero. Fern. The one who saves.

  “It should have been me.”

  “Don’t, Fern,” Holden says.

  But I imagine how different everything would be. If it had been me, everyone would have Charlie to make them feel better. And me being gone wouldn’t really feel all that different, since no one really notices me anyway. It would have been so much better if it had been me instead.

  “It’s true. I was the Big Bad Wolf. He ran away from me because I wasn’t paying attention to him. I was ignoring him!”

  “Don’t do this, honey,” my dad says. He puts his warm hand on my shoulder, but I shrug it off.

  “You know it’s true! ” I yell. “All he wanted was a little attention. But I just ignored him! It’s all my fault!”

  “Stop it!” Sara screams. And we all turn to look at her. “Stop saying that! Stop thinking it!” She’s scratched her face. “I can’t stand it!” she yells. “Just stop!”

  But I can’t. Because I know it’s true.

  I get up and run to the water. I don’t know what I’m thinking, but I just start walking in. The truth feels like it’s crushing me. Drowning me before I even get up to my knees.

  The water seeps through my sneakers and up my jeans. It’s icy cold, and it’s such a relief to feel an outside hurt take over the hurt inside. The pain stings my ankles and crawls up my legs as I walk in deeper.

  “Fern!” they all call behind me, but I don’t turn. I walk in deeper. I slam my fists at the water. At the seagulls. At the sky.

  “Why did you do it! He was just a little boy!” I scream and splash and shake from the cold. All the while I can see Charlie in my mind. Hear him laughing. See him looking back at me as he ran away. Me. The Big Bad Wolf coming to get him.

  I slam my fists into the water again, stepping in deeper.

  “I need him back!” I scream. “Give him back!” I push myself forward into more cold. It takes my breath away and I am choking. “Please give him back!”

  Strong hands grab my shoulders and pull me toward the shore.

  “No! No!” I scream, trying to break free. “Let me go!” I swing my fists.

  The arms fold around me.

  “I can’t! I can’t!” I scream. “I can’t!”

  I can’t live. I can’t act like life can keep going on without him. That all will be well. It won’t! Nothing will ever be right again. Nothing.

  “It’s OK. It’s OK now. Let it out.” My dad’s voice is quiet and calm in my ear.

  But there is nothing to let out.

  Nothing.

  I am empty.

  He wraps me in the blanket and buckles me in the backseat, and we all drive back home. Sara guides me to the upstairs bathroom and runs a hot bath for me, then leaves me alone. I undress and pull back the shower curtain. I already put Charlie’s bath toys under the sink, but there are still traces of him here. Fingerprints of bathtub paint that haven’t dissolved with the water yet. I touch them, careful not to smudge them in any way. I can feel the panic rising in my chest again, but I swallow it back down. I pour the bubble bath Charlie loved in the water and swish it around. It smells like Charlie when he first comes out of the bath and runs around naked from room to room, a devilish grin on his face as he shakes his bare bottom at us and runs off again with naked Doll dangling from one hand.

  I put my soap-covered hands to my face and cry again. Cry and cry until I get so used to the smell I can’t smell it anymore, and I have to open the bottle and breathe it in. Breath after breath after breath.

  THE DAY BEFORE THE FUNERAL, my mom finally comes downstairs. She’s wearing my dad’s sweats, and her hair is stringy and gross. She stands at the kitchen counter and holds herself up by leaning on her elbow against the counter. My dad gives her a cup of coffee, and she sips it quietly. Her face is grayish, and her eyes seem sunken in.

  She doesn’t look like our mom. She looks like a ghost of her.

  I had hoped when she came down, she would wrap us up in her arms like she used to do with Charlie. And she would tell us she was here, just like when she’d come into my room at night when I woke up from a nightmare. “I’m here,” she’d whisper. “I’m here.” Until I fell back to sleep. But now I think those arms would pass right through me. It makes me feel as empty as she looks.

  When she finishes her coffee, we follow her out to the living room to wait for the minister, who is stopping by to talk to us about Charlie and what will happen at the memorial service. We don’t belong to a church, so Mona recommended him.

  My dad greets him at the door and they talk quietly for a minute, then they come to talk with us. The minister is huge like my dad but quieter. Calmer. I wonder how many times he’s had to come to a house like ours. To say words no one wants to hear.

  The whole time, my parents sit on the couch and stare at the coffee table. Sara and I are squeezed into my mom’s chair, and Holden stands behind us. The minister’s eyes dart from one of us to another as he talks. It seems like he’s been trained to do this. To make eye contact with everyone in the room. Each time our eyes meet, I feel like he can see inside me. Like he can see my guilt. I’m glad when he leaves.

  All day, people stop by with casserole dishes for the service tomorrow. My dad stands in the doorway to accept them.

  I’m so sorry. We’re so sorry.

  We hear the words over and over through the open door. They are supposed to comfort. I know that. But I want to scream at everyone to shut up. What are they sorry for?

  In the afternoon, my dad and Holden make several trips back and forth to the restaurant to bring the food over there. None of us want it. Instead, my mom and Sara make plain pasta, and we all try to force it down. My dad tells us what the plans are for tomorrow, but no one responds. I keep waiting for my mom to look up. To look at us. Look at me. But she doesn’t. Maybe it’s because she can’t. Maybe it’s because she knows it’s my fault.

  The next morning, Sara wakes us all up, and we take turns in the shower. I don’t own any skirts, so Sara lends me one of her Indian print ones. It’s too long, so I have to roll it up at the waist. I wear a dark blue blouse with it. Standing in front of the mirror, I don’t recognize myself. My hair hangs limply to my shoulders. I look frumpy. Sara comes into my room with a brush and offers to pull my hair back for me. When she’s done, she leads me to the mirror again. Somehow, with my hair up, I look taller. Older.

  “You should pull your hair back more often, Fern. You look pretty.”

  I don’t want to look pretty.

  Sara looks older, too. She has on a long, deep purple ski
rt with a black ballet-style top. She wears a pretty shawl over her shoulders that Mona knitted for her for Christmas last year. When our eyes meet, she looks down, and for a second, she looks just like my mom last night. And I realize why they can’t look at me. Because they think it’s my fault. Because they know it is.

  I follow Sara downstairs to join the others. My mom looks small. She’s wearing another Mona shawl. She looks like she’s hiding in it. My dad wears an old suit that looks too tight. They are both pale and distant looking. Holden hands me my coat and helps me put it on. I feel Charlie’s fireman in my pocket and bite my bottom lip. I don’t want to cry today. I just want to be a stone.

  The parking lot is already filling up when we get to the restaurant. We park in the back and go in through the kitchen. It’s been almost a week since I’ve been here. A few of the regular cooks are busy heating up the various dishes people dropped off. They hug my mom and dad and cry. We inch closer to the swinging door that leads to the dining room, where people are already gathering.

  The door swings open and the minister comes in. He shakes my dad’s hand and pats my mom’s shoulders.

  “The chairs are all set up, and people are starting to settle in,” he says.

  My parents latch on to each other as if they are holding each other up. Sara and Holden both reach for my hands.

  “The table looks beautiful,” the minister says. “The flowers are perfect. I understand you didn’t bring the urn with you.”

  My mom shakes her head.

  I hadn’t thought about an urn. That there would be one. My grandparents died before I was born, and I’ve never been to a funeral before. But I guess they must put the ashes in something. I squeeze my eyes shut to try to erase the thought of Charlie in some sort of vase. All of Charlie in some tiny bottle. It feels so wrong. So impossible.

  We wait a bit longer in the kitchen while the minister goes out to the dining room to welcome people. Though I guess welcome isn’t the best word. The smell of all the food heating up is making me feel sick to my stomach. The tag inside the collar of my shirt starts to scratch.

  Finally, the minister comes back to get us. There’s a row of empty seats saved for us in the front of the dining room, and we all sit down. I don’t look out at the sea of people crammed into the restaurant. I look at my hands in my lap. After we’re all seated, the minister goes to the front of the room and stands next to the table with the flowers and Charlie’s photo in a large frame. Charlie’s brown hair looks like it’s glowing, with the beautiful fall light shining through. Sara took the photo when she and my mom brought Charlie apple picking a week or so before — before. Holden and I didn’t want to go, and my dad was working. They came home with apple-cider doughnuts and two bags of apples. Charlie kept pulling apples out of the bag to show me and Holden which ones he’d picked. We told him he couldn’t possibly know which ones were which, but he just scowled at us and said, “Do, too.”

  “These are the times when words fail us,” the minister says, making eye contact around the room. “It isn’t often that I’m asked to preside over a child’s memorial service. And I admit, when I am, I take pause. I wonder, like many of you are probably wondering, how this could happen? We search inside ourselves. We may even question our faith. But always, I do find faith.”

  All will be well, I think. What a load of crap. What is there to have faith in? That bad things happen? That life isn’t fair?

  “When my own sister died, a friend shared a poem with me by Merrit Malloy. It’s called ‘Epitaph,’ and I’ve kept it in my wallet for years because I find comfort in the words.”

  He clears his throat and begins to read. It starts with the line “When I die,” so I stop listening. I don’t want to hear that word. I don’t want to feel its meaning.

  My hand tingles with the memory of Charlie’s sticky one in mine. I reach over and take Holden’s hand to stop the feeling. It’s warm and dry, and he holds on as tight as I do.

  “ ‘Look for me in the people I’ve known,’ ” the minister reads.

  I close my eyes. No, Charlie. No. I want to see all of you, not pieces. I squeeze Holden’s hand harder and feel tears slip down my cheeks. My throat aches so much. I am choking on these words.

  “ ‘Love doesn’t die, people do,’ ” the minister continues. “ ‘So, when all that’s left of me is love, give me away.’ ”

  He says the last words very slowly, carefully, as if he wants to make sure their meaning sinks in. I hate them.

  When all that’s left of me is love, give me away.

  How could I ever do that? Why would I want to do that?

  “Today these words may seem too radical to bear,” the minister says, as if he read my mind. “I know they were to me when I first read them. But over the years, as I think of my sister and the love she spread, I am inspired by this goal. Love doesn’t die. No. Love never dies. And your love for Charlie will not fade. It will grow.”

  Beside me, I feel Sara’s shoulders shake as she cries, and I reach over and take her hand in my free one.

  “But do not let that love be out of guilt. You all provided Charlie with a beautiful childhood. Many of the people who work at this restaurant have shared stories about Charlie. About his beloved Doll and the pure joy he took in every moment. How he waited at the window every day for his sister Fern to come from school. How he loved his sisters and brother the way only a youngest child can.”

  I squeeze my sister’s hand harder and on my other side, Holden’s. I don’t know if I can bear to hear more. I don’t know if I can keep myself from screaming, I hurt so much.

  “Charlie was a very special child. Like all children. And so I ask you today to embrace that love you have for Charlie. Let it heal your heart. Let it guide you tomorrow and all the days of your lives. That is the kind of love that is a gift you can give away and still never be without.”

  Warm tears drip down my cheeks, but I don’t wipe them away. I clutch Holden’s and Sara’s hands tighter.

  The minister bows his head, and we all do the same. There’s a long, stretched-out silence that’s only interrupted by the sniffs of people crying. And finally a quiet song the minister sings without any music. But I don’t listen to the words, because all I can think of is Charlie and all that is left of him.

  When the minister finishes singing, he quietly puts out the candle that was on the table.

  And then it’s over.

  THE MINISTER MOTIONS for our family to stand, so we get up and walk to the back of the restaurant. Then people start to come toward us. There are so many. Regulars from the restaurant. People from school. Strangers. They hug my parents. And some of them hug me. I notice that not everyone is coming over to us and I’m glad. From the back, I see the staff bringing out food from the kitchen, and some people I recognize as regulars from the restaurant help spread the dishes out on a few tables they are already moving back into place.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss. I’m so sorry.” The familiar words thrum in my ears over and over again. Men’s voices. Women’s voices. Quietly. Gently. Someone hugs me and gets their wet tears on my cheek. I wipe them on my shoulder. I don’t know why they make me feel sick.

  Then Cassie is standing in front of me with her parents. She hugs me, but she doesn’t say she’s sorry. She doesn’t say anything. She just holds on.

  “You let us know if you need anything, honey,” her mom says. “Anything at all. You come over any time you want.” She and Cassie’s dad both hug me, too. As Cassie walks away, she looks back at me over her shoulder, as if she’s checking to make sure I didn’t disappear.

  When Gray comes up to us, he seems uncomfortable. “Hey, Fern,” he says without looking at me. “I, um . . . I’m really sorry about what happened. It sucks.”

  I nod.

  He moves on to Holden, who doesn’t say a word but wraps his arms around Gray and hides his face in his neck and cries into him. Gray looks like he doesn’t know what to do. He also looks so big next to
Holden like that. He’s a lot taller and filled-out-looking next to skinny Holden. Gray holds him like he is more of a dad than a boyfriend. Like he wants to protect him. Their long hug starts to back up the line, so people start to go around them. At one point, I see my dad glance over with a sort of surprised look. It’s the first time he’s seen Gray, and I think maybe he is shocked to see just how much older Gray really is. Or maybe just to see them hugging.

  I see Sara notice them, too. And I wish she had someone here to hold her like that. Or like Cassie held me. But all her friends are away at school. All she has is the restaurant staff to hang out with, and that can’t be much fun since, except Gil, they’re all way older than she is. For the first time, I realize how truly lonely she must be. I understand why she would sneak off to kiss Gil.

  When Ran’s parents get to me, they hug me close. I can feel all their unspoken words and sorrow in the way they hold me. I look around to see where Ran could be, but I don’t see him anywhere, and they don’t explain his absence.

  When we finally get through the line of people and Holden lets go of Gray, the minister gathers my family into a small circle.

  “You all holding up?” he asks.

  No one replies, but I’m sure we’re all thinking, Not really.

  “Well, there is a beautiful spread here. Plenty of food and seats. If you need to get some fresh air, it will be fine to step outside. People will probably want to offer their support one more time before they leave.”

  My dad leads Sara and my mom to a table in the corner. My mom looks even more empty than she did earlier.

  Holden and Gray walk over to another table, leaving me standing alone with the minister. He smiles at me and puts his hand on my shoulder. “Sara, I hope you and your family know that even though you don’t belong to our church, you can call or e-mail me any time if you need someone to talk to. I know what an impossibly difficult time this is.”